Will You Always Bring Me Oranges?

When I am sick,
Will you always bring me oranges?
Will you always stir my tea,
And bring me newspapers to read?

Will you stand in my doorway,
A beauty in the half light,
And declare to one so ill
That you love him still?

And when my fever finally subsides,
And the shivering has stopped,
Will you lay with me again,
Pressed up tight against my skin?

I hope to see you when we're old,
And our skin has sagged and wrinkled,
And all that we dare drink is tea
And newspaper print's too hard to read.

When I am sick,
Will you always bring me oranges?
I promise I'll do the same.

The Country Life

At what price the country life?
Time to dream of lost ambition
Realised. Even so, the sky
That hangs uncreased by wind

Would fit so well on me;
Or so it seems.
These feet, that long
To wear the earth,

So too are scared to rest.
The minds of great men
Reach outwards and turn back
Again. And what of mine?

To the East

We walked this night, you and I,
In a space reserved for lightning strikes
And littered corpses,

Over the upturned skulls, of mice and men.
You were not there and the road was empty;
In the moonlight I could see for miles.

Under the branches of a dead oak
I kicked at imaginary leaves
And fell down to sleep amongst them.

Dreams came upon me like forgotten friends.
In the first I was both Hero and Leander,
And the beacon still burned.

In the second I was only myself.
Thrust into a giant storm cloud,
I shot bolts of lightning into the sea.

In the final dream, I was the sea itself,
And I carried the burden of a thousand ships,
Drifting sadly to a thousand ports.

I awoke, exhausted, to the heat of flames.
Rushing through them I lifted my head
And set off to the east.

"I give up", she says
In that exemplary tone,
Halfway between sadness
And grievance.

"It just won't sound
The way I want it
To sound, even after
All this effort".

She stands and fishes
For her worn shoes,
Stamping her feet
Into the open mouths.

Bending to tie her laces
In her unusual fashion,
She becomes aware of
A great pressure.

With something like
An Orlean storm
Pressing down upon her,
She misses the loop.

"I don't suppose you
Could ever understand
The way I feel now,
Or will feel tomorrow."

Gathering strength in
These foreign words,
She rises up
From her knee.

Secure now, she turns
To face the ashen door.
"Will you always be
What I want you to be?”

His eyes follow her
Hand upon the latch.
One small effort
And then she is gone.

Hey Gull...

Hey Gull,
This is not the sea,
This murky serpent
Lain out 'fore us.
It draws a filthy course
That we both cheat
By crossing different ways.
One side her,
The other I,
And you, neither, nor
Should it be so.
My line draws north yet
Through bricks and mortar
Set against the furnace glow
Of sunset.

A Life. A Death. A Life Again

The rapidly melting remnants of the previous day’s snow lay between the graves. He had not been to this place since the day of the funeral 10 years ago and, although it had always been in his mind, it was the significance of the date that had finally drawn him here. The fingers of his right hand toyed with the letter in his pocket. Although he was sure of the words, he removed the note and read them over again. Satisfied, he folded the paper in half. As he lowered himself to his knees he lifted the freshly brought flowers from the grave and placed the note underneath. Although he had long since stopped believing in God and Heaven and Hell, on his knees in the grave yard, he closed his eyes and prayed.
…...................

“It’s strange,” said the boy, playing nervously with his straw. “My mother and sister are very upset, but I don’t feel like crying.”
“That’s not strange,” the counsellor replied. “We each have our own different ways of coping. There's no correct way to feel.”
Although the canteen was busy, the lunch time rush was over and families were drifting back to their relatives. The boy was not aware of it now, but some great sadness seemed to hang in that stale and sterile air, a sadness that would stay with him long after the day had ended; every trip to hospital since that moment had brought back this same memory.
“You haven't had any of your drink, would you prefer something else?” she inquired.
“No thank you,” he said.
Embarrassed by the realisation, he took a sip. There was an awkward pause before she continued.
“May I ask how old you are?”
“I'm eight now,” - he may have been seven or nine - “I'm already an uncle though.”
“I know, I met your niece earlier. She is a pretty little girl.” She paused again.
“Only eight! You seem like a mature young man for eight. I bet you do well at school”.
“I get good grades but the teachers say I'm lazy. I'm going to be a lawyer. My mum says you can make a lot of money that way, especially me because I'm always arguing. I'd really like to be an astronaut but I get sick in the back of the car, and to be an astronaut you have to go in these spinny things that I saw on the TV and that would make me really sick.”
She smiled.
“It seems like you've got a good idea of what to do with yourself. That's always important.”
The two sat in silence again, but the boy was deep in thought and did not notice.
“Can we go and see the others again now please?” he asked eventually.
“I should think so. As long as you can remember the way!” she said, teasingly.
“I think so,” he replied, unaware, “I think it's this way.”
….................................

The boy sat on the floor playing. As usual, his mother was dozing in front of the early evening television. They were both startled by a firm rap on the front door. His mother rose to answer, pausing to stretch upwards and straighten her blouse.
After he had heard the door open, the boy was aware of a stranger's voice, a deep tone that made him uneasy: a man, but not his father, or his uncle.
His mother re-entered.
“Stephen, this is your sister's friend John. He'd like to say hello.”
The man who entered was tall and dark skinned, with deep brown eyes and thin black hair. He wore a neat moustache with odd strands of grey that began and ended at the corners of his smile. His long, black winter coat carried flecks of snow from the storm outside. Although noticeably older than the boy's sister, his body was broad and strong and he carried with it a certain elegance.
“Hello,” said the boy.
“Hello Stephen,” he replied. “Your mother and sister both told me that you like penguins, so I thought you might enjoy this.”

In his hands he held a brown box, and he stooped down to place it on the floor. Apprehensive, the boy looked at his mother for reassurance. She was smiling.
“I have to go now, but it shouldn't take much to get it working. Sorry I can't stay and help but I have to get home before the snow settles. It was nice meeting you young man,” he said, offering his hand.
The boy accepted. His own hands were small and the man's grip was painfully firm; the boy tried his best not to show it.
“What do you say?” prompted his mother.
“Thank you very much.”
“You're welcome. Goodbye Stephen”.
“Bye bye.”
His mother led the man out and, still feeling somewhat uneasy, the boy waited patiently for her to return . He heard the sound of laughter before the front door was opened and quickly shut again against the cold.
“Can I open it?” he asked when she had returned.
“Of course you can. It's your gift.”

The device consisted of two main parts which were easy to assemble: a white base with a staircase and a blue spiral chute, like the flumes at a water park. Three small penguins with wheels for feet could be placed on the stairs and when the power was switched on they were pushed upwards, step by step, until they reached the top of the slide and spiralled down to start their journey over again. The boy did like penguins, but what fascinated him most was the rhythmic, cyclical nature of their journey, the constant rise and fall as if moved by some invisible Godly hand or act of fate.
He watched them for some time, until his mother told him it was time for bed.
“Just once more,” pleaded the boy. “Please?”.
“Just once more then” she replied.